


John Should be Nicer to Mycroft

by toomanyships-sendhelp (ValarMorghulis508)



Series: Only Human [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Figging, Light BDSM, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Shibari, Strappado, Timestamp, Top Sherlock, but its fine, he's not included
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 14:38:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12633117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValarMorghulis508/pseuds/toomanyships-sendhelp
Summary: Timestamp some time after part 2 - Written by the 'Only Human' co creator. I'm posting on her behalf :)





	John Should be Nicer to Mycroft

The rain licked streaks that ran down the windows of 221b Baker Street. John, with his turned up collar, clutched his coat to him as he battled against the lashing rain and wind to fumble with the key. Digging into a sodden pocket he pulled them out with an jangle inaudible against the weather and jammed it impatiently into the lock beneath the straightened knocker. 

 

Wait. 

 

Straightened knocker…. 

 

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” John yelled at the innocent door, his voice lost in the passing of a large truck that doused him with grey water from the gutter. “Oh fuck me!”  

 

Yanking the door open, rushing in and slamming it shut behind John took the stairs two at a time. Stomping up wet footprint-size puddles on each step. Mrs. Hudson was not going to be happy about this. Not at all. Ah well, he’d suffer her wrath another day and soothe her with tea and a listening ear. Looking like an angry, half drowned animal John let himself into the flat and glowered at the familiar surroundings. 

 

The flat was as he had left it. Fire glowing down in the grate where it had been left untended. Its lingering warmth feebly attempting to repel the moisture that seemed set on entering with John. His armchair, however, was filled with the long, gangly legs of one Holmes Senior.

Shrugging out of his coat, John hung it on the coat hook, letting the water run off it in droves where it pooled into the floorboards. Clothes damp, hair wet and shoes soaked through john was thoroughly unimpressed at the man that occupied his chair. Was it so much to ask that on a day like today, surgery full of the flu and vaccinations, raining as though England wasn’t wet enough the rest of the year, he could just come home and enjoy some peace and fucking quiet?

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose and drawing in a deep breath, as he was want to do when either of the Holmes got between him and a cup of steaming hot tea, he spoke to the offending legs. 

 

“Get out of my chair and go away, Mycroft. I’ve had a long day and the last thing I need is you ghouling around the flat. Where is Sherlock? Why are you here if Sherlock isn’t here?” Mycroft, far from looking at all taken aback by John’s inhospitality, raised himself out of the chair in one graceful movement and perched himself on the arm of Sherlock’s. 

 

“Good afternoon, John. I trust I find you well.” Polite as ever John rolled his eyes. It was no fun when they didn’t bite back. Mumbling a quick “sod off, creep” under his breath he strode to the kitchen, filling the kettle and beginning the ritual of making tea. No need to ask Mycroft if he wished to partake as the offer was always declined. Mycroft cleared his throat but John didn’t even turn around. 

 

“Yes?” “I wasn’t here looking for Sherlock.” He began. John rolled his eyes and spoke over his shoulder. 

 

“Obviously. You know he isn’t here, keep the place so under wraps you probably know what colour underwear I’m wearing.” He meant it as an off the cuff remark but Mycroft turned to the window to hide the small amount of colour change in his cheeks that constituted as a blush. Mycroft remembered what John looked like without underwear and his brother eliciting such debased sounds from him. You’d never have guessed the proud army veteran could be made to create such noises. That a man such as him was such a masochist. Suppressing any feelings of arousal, or feelings in general, Mycroft turned back John who was frowning at him suspiciously over a mug of tea. 

 

“I wanted to check in on how the married couple is faring.”  John felt like he was under a microscope, Mycroft’s eyes darting from his feet to his fingernails to his hair as though consuming the data that was only ever observable to Holmes. 

 

“You know exactly how we’re ‘faring’ you watch us every second of every day. We are ‘faring’ just fine, thanks. Now sod off.” John pointed to the door taking a sip of black tea. 

 

“Such hostility today.” Mycroft tutted. John rolled his eyes again, he was so not in the mood for a senior Holmes visit. At least not without Sherlock who would provide some entertainment in baiting his brother. “Ah, but never mind. Here he comes now.” Mycroft looked pointedly at the door. John grumbled something about ‘Holmes men’s uncanny ability for superhuman hearing’ before the door flew open and a wet man disguised in a coat, scarf and hidden behind a wet hat presented himself. Sherlock opened his mouth to call for John when his eyes found his brother. 

 

“I thought you’d be here. In future, don’t molest my knocker. Now sod off, we’re busy.” A smile ghosted upon John’s face. He and Sherlock sounded so similar now it was both funny. And terrifying. Turning to make another cup of tea for the latecomer he missed the pointed look Sherlock gave Mycroft and the simpering smile his elder returned at him.

 

“How can you be busy? You just got home!” Mycroft protested. 

 

“We’re too busy for you interfering, Mycroft. Go. Away.” Sherlock took the tea offered at him by John and slumped into his chair all impossibly tangled curls, long folded limbs and surly eyebrows. 

 

“I just wanted to check in on my baby brother and his blushing bride.” Mycroft persisted, earning a deep red that rose from John’s shirt to his cheeks. 

 

“Ah, there it is.” Sherlock downed his tea in two too hot gulps. He had plans, damnit! Plans concerning John. Why couldn’t Mycroft just leave?! Just a pervert looking to spy on his John.  

 

Well, two can play at that game. 

 

Sherlock received more grace from the gene pool than his brother. Gliding up from the chair he went to the bedroom, opened the bottom drawer and took out a worn, leather collar with a single letter ‘s’ carved into the buckle. He wanted a show? He’d get one.  

 

John and Sherlock had an agreement. Any day after six pm when both men had returned from whatever tasks occupied their daily lives, one of them could retrieve the collar from its resting place. When presented with it the other man could accept or deny the non-verbal request for ‘that’ kind of attention.  Their lives didn’t consist of merely cases and unashamedly kinky sex. Sometimes it was cuddles in front of the fire. Sherlock detested the word ‘cuddles’ but John insisted that’s what it was. Sherlock reading a scientific report on some fungus and John staring into the fire, propped up against Sherlock’s chest. If that wasn’t cuddles, then he was the Queen of France. (A concept declared utterly ridiculous by Sherlock who began lecturing John on the succession of France’s governing bodies until kissed into submission.) 

 

But sometimes it was unashamedly kinky sex. And if the collar was accepted then it was on. Sherlock would buckle the collar around John’s neck and slowly guide him down into the mental space through a careful balance of pain, denial and pleasure. 

 

Sherlock walked back out to the main room with purpose, holding the collar at his side. John was busying himself in the sink, hairs standing up on the back of his neck as Mycroft stared at him with the same penetrating gaze Sherlock possessed. Must be some family trait, John mused, tea towel in hand. He turned, the mop of unruly black hair attracting his attention from the corner of his eye. Sherlock stared into him as John lowered his gaze to the leather in his hand. 

 

John promptly sank to his knees. This is what he had wanted all day. To be deconstructed entirely by the genius method of his husband. Tea towel forgotten and crumpled on the floor where he dropped it. Sinking his head down he placed his hands behind his back, gripping his wrists and spread his knees just slightly. Sherlock gave a nod of approval.  

So John accepted then. Even with present company.  

 

Mycroft stared at them both. He had seen this countless times on the CCTV feeds that filmed the public and private lives of John and Sherlock for their ‘protection’ but the electricity that filled the room could have rivalled the lightning rolling in the thunderstorm clouds outside.  Sherlock wrapped the collar around John’s neck, pulling the leather through the silver buckle slowly and tightening it methodically until it rested snugly against the warm skin. Without turning to his brother and running a finger between cool leather and flushed skin he commented, 

 

“As you can see. We are very busy, brother. You will need to go.” He gave the collar two taps, a signal Mycroft had never been close enough to interpret. His mouth went dry as John began pulling off the woollen jumper and unbuttoning the shirt that clung to his wet body. It took Mycroft until John had peeled off his shirt, handing it to Sherlock and starting on his belt before the usually collected man came back to his senses. Sherlock’s attention was purely on John as he knelt up only long enough to remove his jeans leaving him kneeling in only red pants and worn leather collar. 

 

“Yes, well. I’d best be off then.” Mycroft choked out, dragging his eyes away from the practically nude John, his underpants leaving nothing to the imagination, and left the flat abruptly. Sherlock waited until he heard the front door shut and the sound of his black car moving away from the kerb. 

 

“Good boy.” He murmured, stroking John’s cheek. John in submissive ‘mode’ as he had dubbed it, was a sight to see. He really couldn’t blame Mycroft for getting lost in it. It wasn’t the semi-nude man, although that was a sight on its own. It was the unfaltering obedience. Even though he would’ve been very uncomfortable stripping like that and kneeling before Mycroft John had obeyed him. 

 

“Bedroom. Wait for me there.” Sherlock instructed, pulling John up by the collar and tugging at the man’s last remaining clothing. John thumbed around the edges and pulled them down, handing them to Sherlock and walking down the corridor to disappear into their room. 

Sherlock palmed his groin and sucked in a breath through his teeth. He had wanted this all day. Had planned exactly what he wanted to do to a man who wouldn’t say no and then his brother had to appear and ruin it all. Never mind. All was right with the world now Mycroft had disappeared. Rain always made John grumpy, he thought as he pulled the large ginger root from the cupboard and grabbed a dangerously sharp paring knife. Sherlock would cheer John up soon enough. 

 

Taking both items with him he wasted no time in going straight to the bedroom where John was waiting, kneeling at the foot of the bed. The most divine sight. 

 

John, knees spread and palms up resting on taut thighs and a deliciously hard cock that jutted out from the sand coloured patch of neatly trimmed hair. Sherlock couldn’t help himself. He knelt down before John, bent down and swallowed John’s cock in one smooth, practised motion. Keeping his lips tight around it as he pulled slowly away, licking his lips like a cat with fresh milk. 

“Good boy.” He purred as John stared at him with dazed eyes and unbridled arousal. Sherlock dipped his thumb into John’s mouth who swirled his tongue around it until Sherlock withdrew it, replacing it with two fingers. John took the additional digits without skipping a beat, moving his head as though he the fingers were the cock he would have preferred. Sherlock watched, with half lidded eyes as John moaned around his fingers, wetting them and trying to take them deeper. Sherlock could’ve done that all afternoon, put various things in John’s mouth and watch him work his magic on them. But that wasn’t in the plan. Placing the ginger root in John’s open hand and the knife in the other. he watched his submissive’s almost imperceptible twitch of recognition. 

 

“Yes, John. You know what to do.” 

 

From the second he sliced the first bit of tough skin to reveal the golden flesh beneath and release the tangy scent John’s arousal throbbed. He remembered the unexpected, slow, burning pain that accompanied this. It was almost a torture on its own to have him prepare it himself. John knew exactly how Sherlock would want it. Peeled, with two wide notches cut into it before leaving the final piece wide enough that it wouldn’t got lost within him.  John deliberately didn’t turn to look at Sherlock’s activities. He heard the mattress of their new four poster bed sink beneath the wiry detective’s weight as he secured a rope high up on the posts at the foot of the bed. 

 

Giving a quick tug he tested the tensile weight and flex of it and gave a nod. Looking down to the man on the floor he saw John had finished preparing the root and was waiting patiently, knife and root exactly where Sherlock had left them. Sherlock placed the root in John’s mouth, the submissive man holding it away from his tongue and securely between his teeth. 

 

“Up.” Sherlock guided John up by his collar to kneel upright, placing his hands behind his back. It was almost a meditative practice for both men as Sherlock bound John’s arms from wrists to elbows with the hemp rope. Twisting it back on itself, tucking it gently around his arms and tightening until his elbows touched. John relished the feeling of slowly being bound, his movement restricted with every loop and knot Sherlock crafted around his limbs. He felt the day slip away from him as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the gradual bite of rope into his skin. 

 

Sherlock looped a length of rope over the suspended horizontal rope and fixed that to the wrist restraints. John gritted his teeth, taking in a deep breath. This position was not a comfortable one for the veteran’s shoulder. As Sherlock pulled his arms up into a strappado position John felt his back arch and the ache in his shoulder begin. 

 

Tying off the end to suspend his arms upward in an unnatural position Sherlock ran his hands down John’s sides to stand behind him. 

 

“You were very rude to my brother just then, John.” He began, voice low and quiet. “What did you say to him?” Grabbing their lubricant he smeared a generous dollop into his hand. Putting his hand beneath the strung up man he started to give John long, firm strokes. John’s head dropped as he moaned softly, drool running down the root and legs trembling as he resisted the urge to thrust into the tightness. “What did you say?” Sherlock asked again, tapping on John’s knees to widen, lowering his body and placing more pressure on his shoulders. 

 

“I… I said sod off…several times” John replied between strokes. Sherlock made a quizzical noise as though amused and surprised. 

 

“Is that so? Is that really appropriate behaviour?”  

 

“No Sir.” 

 

“And to top that off, you knew he was watching you. Yet you took off your clothes anyway. You stripped for someone who isn’t me. Let someone else see you the way only I should. That just isn’t right, is it?” Sherlock withdrew his hand, leaving John bereft of touch. They both knew the game, John had had no choice in the matter. Once the collar went on, clothes came off. Immediately. 

 

“No Sir.” John replied, dutifully prompt in his answer and not arguing the point. They both knew that what Sherlock had planned would come to pass no matter what John said. It was half the eroticism of the whole situation.

 

“Well then, wouldn’t you say you deserve this?”

 

“Yes Sir.” 

 

Putting a fingernail sized dollop of lube on his index finger Sherlock spread it across John’s hole. Just the barest, minimum amount. Figging always worked best with little to no lubrication and leaving the receiver without preparation so the root had to fit for each centimetre it gained. Taking the root he pushed it firmly against John, twisting it first one way and then the other until his body accepted it, consuming it until the first notch. 

 

Nothing yet. 

 

Well, that was to be expected. Sherlock pulled it out and began again, pushing and twisting until it was past the first notch and onto to the slightly larger bulge and settling into the second notch. Third time’s a charm, withdrawing it completely he pressed it in again, this time without twisting it, just firm pressure. Sherlock stared fascinated, as John’s body accepted it, watch it disappear until the flared base cut into the root sat snugly against his rim. 

 

And so it began. The slow burn. The continual thrusting of it was enough friction for the juice to seep into the flesh and start the ache that burned hotter. John clenched his fists and ground his teeth. 

“Stop that.” Sherlock admonished, bringing a palm strike down hard onto one of John’s cheeks. As his body flinched in response the ginger bit back with more intensity. Rummaging around in their bedroom drawer Sherlock retrieved the ball gag with large holes in it. John hated how he loved the way it made him drool without restraint. Humiliation went hand in hand with his penchant for pain. 

 

“Open wide, John.” Obediently he opened his mouth, letting Sherlock put the gag in that stretched his jaw uncomfortably and strap it behind his head. 

 

Heaven. John thought only of rapturous delight and peace. Strung up, unable to move more than his legs which trembled under the strain. Feeling the burn in his ass the ache in his shoulders and watching his drool hang down to pool on the bed covers.  

 

When he accepted the collar he knew what was to come and took it gratefully. Sherlock knew exactly how to pull him apart without breaking him. Knew when he needed derogatory words and denial, and equally when he needed Sherlock’s intense, full attention. John was safe. 

Sherlock unbuckled his belt, the jangling of the metal making John shudder as he waited in anticipation. Doubling the leather over he rubbed John’s ass with an affectionate hand and without hesitation, brought the belt down with half his strength. John yelled into the gag and lurched forward, wrenching at his shoulders before coming back to centre. 

 

The root was immovable and with each strike of the belt the burn intensified until he was sobbing and rocking his hips in short thrusts trying to get away from it. Choosing a different place every time Sherlock kept bringing the belt down hard until John’s skin from above the knee to the small of his back was a fiery red. Between collections of strikes Sherlock would palm the new welts and bring John back to full hardness by stroking the man firmly. once licking a wide stripe with his tongue up the ridge of a particularly spectacular welt and taking great interest watching John contract around the ginger.  

John was shaking and trembling, moaning almost incessantly. he had ceased to be John Watson and existed only in that moment. His body a mix of pain and the pleasure pain brought him. Sherlock stood back after bringing him dangerously close to orgasm again and watched his cock bob impotently at the denial, precum joining the wet patch of saliva and decided John was near his breaking point. Leaving the room briefly he went to the kitchen, pulling open the freezer and retrieving their ice cube tray.  

 

When he returned to John the man was drawing in deep breaths through the gag, spittle rattling on the way in. He was making tiny thrusts into the air, his cock red, hard and swollen begging for release. As soon as he heard Sherlock return he began moaning again, trying to say his name around the implement obstructing his speech. 

 

“I know, John. I agree.” Sherlock rubbed his thumb over the litany of welts and began slowly removing root. John sobbed as the burning lit anew, staying perfectly still while Sherlock pulled it out and dropped it on the floor. Taking an ice cube, Sherlock chased the red, abused rim with the icy relief of an ice cube, pushing it into John and following it with several more. Taking a handful he rubbed them against the welts, cooling the angry skin before pushing them into John as well. 

 

Standing up he released John’s wrists from their harsh, strappado and massaged John’s shoulders. Untying the man gently and laying him on his back, the wet patch resting against his spine. Keeping the gag in, Sherlock toyed with the saliva and used it to slick up his hand. 

 

“You were so good, John. Took Everything I gave you. I think you’ve earned a reprieve.” Kissing through the wetness on John’s chest he placed John’s arms by his sides, pressing them into the mattress to indicate they should stay there before licking the tip of John’s cock. John thought he might just come there and then. Loosening his own pants, Sherlock stroked himself with one hand while he used the other to assist in sucking John’s soul out through his cock. 

 

John’s hands scrunched up the sheets in his efforts to keep them there, watching

Sherlock’s head bob up and down as he felt pleasure abound. It was too soon before John was spilling into Sherlock’s mouth, moaning around the gag and making tiny thrusts up into that hot wetness. 

 

Sherlock stroked himself faster, pausing only to climb on top of John. Straddling his chest he fisted himself quickly under John’s lustful stare until his own end came about. Leaning forward he came where he knew John wanted it most, painting stripes over his face until the hot, salty liquid dripped through the holes in the gag to where John could taste it.  

 

Unbuckling John’s gag he watched as John dutifully licked it clean and rolled the man over. 

 

“Better?” He asked, straddling the small of John’s back as he massaged tiger balm into the shoulder that sported the starburst scar. John practically purred beneath him, head resting to the side with a happy, dreamy smile. 

 

“Better.”


End file.
